Page 131 of The Darkest Oath

She shattered.

His voice was faint and less than a whisper, but it was enough to send her weeping into his shoulder.

“Rollant,” she sobbed. Her fingers clutched his hand, clinging as if she could anchor him there, pull him fully back into life. “You’re awake. You’re awake.”

He moaned, his head rolling weakly on the pillow as if testing the limits of his body. He rasped in a voice, hoarse and broken, “Am I dead?”

Élise laughed through her tears. “No,” she whispered, pushing his hair back from his forehead, “But you’re stubborn enough to come close.”

His voice rasped, hoarse and broken. “I have so much pain,” he said. “But so much life.” Her hands cupped his face as his eyes fluttered open, their dark brown meeting hers with a dazed focus.

His lips twitched into something like a smile, and it sent a flood of hope rushing through her. For two days, she had wondered if she’d ever see him smile again. Yet, he was here, and he was alive.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” she said, tears brimming once more as she pressed her lips to his.

Rollant took Élise’s hand and pressed it against his chest. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat was steady and strong. His eyes softened, and she swore she saw a glimmer of peace there that she’d never seen before.

He exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a sob. Tears filled his eyes, but they were not of pain.

“For the first time in six hundred years,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “I’m finally alive.”

Élise held his face in her hand, her own tears falling freely now. “And you’re mine,” she whispered fiercely as she touched her forehead to his. “All of you. For as long as you live.”

* * *

The days stretchedinto weeks and months, and Élise watched Rollant recover. The strong, stoic knight she had first met began to reappear, though there were moments when his pain lingered in his gait and the lines of his face when his breath caught from the wounds that had nearly killed him.

Élise worked tirelessly beside Bertille, tending to him, cooking meals, and keeping their small world in order. The weight of everything she’d endured—from her childhood, Gabin, Hugo, and the Revolution—settled over her, but it did not crush her. If anything, it strengthened her resolve. Once, she had lived in fear, always bracing for the next fight, the next loss. Now, she had something to hold onto—someone to hold her back.

Each moment with Rollant, each breath he took, reminded her that she had not only survived—she had built something worth living for.

One day, Élise glanced up at Rollant as they walked through the garden, arm in arm, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow. The golden light of evening bathed the garden in a quiet glow, painting the lavender and thyme in hues of amber and violet.

Rollant still carried himself like a knight—head high, shoulders strong, every movement deliberate—but his face had changed. The burdens of centuries had not disappeared, but they no longer consumed him. The weight was still there, but now, he carried it differently. He carried it with her.

Her fingers laced with his, and he squeezed gently as if grounding himself in this life they had built from the ashes of war.

She smiled. “What are you thinking?”

Rollant exhaled, his eyes scanning the garden—the place they had nearly lost each other and, against all odds, found their way back. His fingers curled tighter around hers. “I never thought I’d be this happy,” he whispered as if the words themselves were fragile, too precious to speak aloud.

He turned to her then, and the achingly tender love in his gaze made her chest tighten around a fast-beating heart. There wasn’t just love, but certainty. He had searched across centuries and found his answer in her. She hadn’t just chosen him; she had chosen love. And every day, she would choose it again.

CHAPTER47

A Legacy to Leave

CHARONNE, PARIS, JUNE 1807

Rollant blinked awake.His vision blurred with the golden light of dawn spilling into the room, casting a warm glow over the familiar space. The air smelled of lavender and the lingering embers from last night’s fire, and for a moment, he only breathed, relishing the sensation of waking up with the weight of another beside him.

Élise lay nestled against his chest, her breath a soft, steady rhythm against his ribs. Her hand clutched his as if she were anchoring him to this world. For centuries, he had awoken alone; he had felt nothing but the cold emptiness of immortality stretching endlessly before him. Now, her warmth and touch grounded him. He allowed himself to indulge her embrace as he had every morning since his second brush with mortal death.

He shifted slowly, sliding his arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer, pressing his lips to her hair, breathing in the faint scent of lavender and linen. He had imagined this moment for lifetimes—but nothing compared to the reality of holding her. Of feeling the weight of her in his arms, unburdened by fear. His hands, so used to wielding swords and shields, now held something infinitely more precious. He felt the gentle rise and fall of her breath against him, the soft flutter of her lashes as she stirred, and the silken weight of her hair against his skin.

For so long, love had been a painful memory buried beneath the endless march of time. But now he knew love was meant to be a presence, tangible and alive. He tightened his arms around her, marveling at the simple miracle of touch. It was no longer fatal; it was theirs. It soothed him and gave him a reason to keep fighting—not for kings or crowns, but for love. For her.

“Élise,” he whispered, testing the shape of her name on his lips as if it were a prayer.

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